


Winchester Fine

by dragongurl713



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:30:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongurl713/pseuds/dragongurl713
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winchesters had never been normal. Why should their vocabulary be any different?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winchester Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Written after my mom was hospitalized for a mini-stroke. Sometimes writing soothes when all else fails. Many thanks to my fantastic beta, krisfin, for the quick read.

Heart pounding. Hands shaking.   
Breath that turns shallow every time he allows his thoughts to stray from the room’s sterile blandness.  
Pacing.   
Fifteen strides to the window and fifteen strides back.  
Tile, dirty from the countless feet that have crossed it over the hours. Plastic chair that digs into his back and ass everytime he sits down. Coffee machine in the hall that splatters his hand with burning droplets whenever he refills. Endless faces that change with time and the names being called from the desk.  
These are the things that make up his existence as he waits. Oh, he waits. Waits for the doctor who will tell him that they’re are doing everything they can and he should prepare himself, just in case.  
Or worse. The doctor who looks at him with a sad smile and a shake of his head, saying things like, “We tried the best that we could,” or “Is there someone you’d like to call?” Stupid things. Inane things. Words that mean less than their efforts.  
But he’s not thinking about that. Now, he focuses on his steps — _eight, nine, ten_ — and the slight stick from the juice he walked through earlier.   
Step stick. Step stick. Stepstick. Steptick. Septic.  
He jerks his head. No.  
At the window, he takes a sip and stares at the streets and parking lots below. Little people, little cars, moving about as if the world hasn’t come to a stop. As if everything is normal. Okay, maybe there’s never been _normal_ , but…  
“Mr. Tyler?”  
A moment of dismissal — another name, another worried face — and then-  
Oh, that’s me.  
He approaches the doctor, coffee forgotten and hands shoved into his pockets.  
“Mr. Tyler?”  
He nods.  
“I’m Dr. Windsor,” A quick handshake. “Would you like to sit down?”  
His stomach plummets. Oh, God, no…  
Windsor’s eyes widen and she places a hand on his arm.  
“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… He’s fine, your brother’s fine. You just look a little worn, that’s all.”  
His breath leaves him in a whoosh and he laughs shakily.  
“Sorry, it’s just, it’s been a rough day.”  
She nods and squeezes his arm with a smile.  
“I understand completely. But don’t worry. The procedure went flawlessly and his recovery has already begun. To be frank, we don’t often see cases quite so far progressed, but we were able to take care of it in time.”  
She smiles again.  
“Your brother is one tough cookie, Mr. Tyler. Just a few days of antibiotics and a couple weeks of rest and he’ll be back on his feet.”  
Relief is a cold tingle and he smiles shakily.  
“Thanks, doc. Can I…?”  
She nods and gestures him to double doors.  
“Absolutely. We’d like to keep him until tomorrow so we can make sure the infection didn’t spread, but you can stay with him, if you’d like.”  
“Yeah, that’d be-” he clears his throat. “Thank you.”  
She nods again and guides him to an elevator and then a room on the second floor.  
He moves past her, nodding at her promise to be by later and lowers himself into the chair by the bed.  
Eyes move behind bruised eyelids, but no pain wrinkles his brother’s face.  
Setting his elbows on the bed, he rubs his hands over his face and lets out a half-sob.  
Everything was okay.  
He rests his face against folded hands and lets himself think, remember.  
The fire-hot burn from a simple swipe of fingers along a forehead. The wild, fear-filled car ride to the hospital, listening to nonsensical mumblings and groans of pain. The terror of being left behind as he was left alone to wonder.  
So much. Too much. _Too-_  
“Dude. I can hear you freaking out and I’m still high on anesthetic.”  
He looks up, sheepishly trying to hide wet blinks and hitched breaths with a smile.  
“You can’t get high off anesthetics, Dean.”  
“Oh, so that’s why…”  
Sam chuckles, grateful for the distraction and for the brother who can save him, even when drugged and lying in a hospital bed.  
“You doing okay?”  
Dean shrugs a shoulder and winces.  
“Yeah, m’fine. You?”  
No. Maybe eventually, but not now.  
“Fine.” Because that’s what Winchesters do. “But dude, appendicitis?”  
“Shut up.”  
“Nuh uh. I mean, we fight monsters and demons and ghosts and you get taken down by your own organ? One you don’t even need?”  
Dean rolls his eyes and shifts carefully.  
“Yeah, yeah. But y’know, it shows.”  
He sits back to give him space.  
“Shows what?”  
That old, always-familiar, shit-eating grin.  
“The only thing that can take me down, Sammy, is me.”  
Please. Sam rolls his eyes as a nurse walks in.  
Dean keeps his gaze on Sam’s face, scrutinizing. Sam gives him a smile and a nod.  
 _I’m fine._  
His brother turns to the nurse and gives her a bright smile that makes her blush.  
A wink in little brother’s direction and the flirt-till-she-gives-me-extra-pudding is turned up full force.  
Maybe not quite alright.  
But getting there.


End file.
